


Once upon a time in Cardiff

by capalxii



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Flower Shop, Alternate Universe - Tattoo Parlor, F/M, Fluff, florist/tattoo artist au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-03
Updated: 2014-12-03
Packaged: 2018-02-27 23:37:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,381
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2710829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/capalxii/pseuds/capalxii
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Based on this great Tumblr post: "I passed a flower shop next to a tattoo shop and at first I laughed because I thought it was ironic and then i freaked because IMAGINE YOUR OTP IN A FLORIST/TATTOO ARTIST AU"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Once upon a time in Cardiff

**Author's Note:**

> The Tumblr post in question: http://killer--ink.tumblr.com/post/98500585558/i-passed-a-flower-shop-next-to-a-tattoo-shop-and
> 
> I'm only barely tattooed, and I have the opposite of a green thumb, so I apologize in advance for errors on either front.

Once upon a time, in a beautiful land far far away--

That wasn't quite right.

Once upon a time in Cardiff, which was very pretty in its own right, there was a street. And on that street there was a wonderful little shop, full of brilliant colors and lively sights, run by a sweet looking young woman who went by the name of Clara Oswald. Hers was a busy place of business, with Clara and her apprentices working through sunny summer afternoons and cool summer nights to give her patrons exactly what they asked for, whatever it was as long as it was within reason. 

Clara created art, her medium was ink, and her canvas was the happy paying customer. Due to a steady hand and creative mind, there were plenty of people walking around with her work on their bodies and their wallets slightly lighter for the privilege. It was a good life. Until one day, the empty shop next door stopped being empty. In place of the void, there was a flower shop and nursery. 

Which would have been perfectly fine, except with the flowers came a man called the Doctor.

*

The Doctor, all the other shop owners on her street decided, seemed friendlier with his plants than with people. Customers came in, and while some were very happy with their purchases in spite of the cold service, others were turned away--told in no uncertain terms that they could not be trusted to keep such beautiful, fragile creatures alive. He was very protective, said the woman who ran the stationery store four doors down, and while it was admirable that he took such care of his stock, he seemed a bit heartless and that did make people want to avoid their side of the street. 

It took a week for Clara to find time to meet the new proprietor herself. And when she did, she was sure she should have regretted it, but she didn't.

*

A jingle of the bell above the door, a smile as she leaned her head in, and a simple, "Hello?" should not have elicited the reaction Clara got in return. From behind a tall ficus out peered a man. Or, more accurately, out peered a collection: a lined scowl, a gloomy brow, a pair of big glowering eyes all under an incongruously thick, curly shock of silvered hair. When the rest of this collection stepped out and began to warily approach her, things were no better; he looked for all the world like some kind of stick insect in a slim cut coat. His shoulders were skinny, his arms inconsequentially slim, yet wholly independent things which ended in fingers that curled and flowed into fists and back out again as they skimmed the leaves and counters along his path to her.

"May I help you?" he asked, in such a tone that implied he didn't really want to help at all.

Undaunted, Clara waved and took a full step inside. "I'm next door," she said. "Saying hello."

"You've now said it twice," he said.

At this, her grin broadened. Clara prided herself on being a bright ray of sunshine whether others wanted it or not, but especially when others did not. Aggressive cheer was her preferred weapon, and she wielded it expertly. "Well then. Hello a third time." Off his confused look, she added, "Wanted to say it again to make up for you not saying it at all."

The stick insect's eyes went wide, before his frown deepened and he drew himself up only to stare down at his boots. "Oh. Yes. Hello."

It was then that the ray of sunshine felt a bit of uncertain cloudiness. "So we've got the hellos settled?"

"Yes. The hellos are settled." 

There was a noticeable amount of gruffness in his voice that sounded more like a place to hide than anything else, and Clara thought, ah. Of course. "How long have you been running nurseries?" she asked. 

He looked up again, still frowning at her. "Long enough."

"You very good at it?"

His eyes went wide, then narrow, before he blinked and blinked and blinked again. "I'm wonderful with plants. You'll find no better, anywhere. That's why I'm called what I'm called."

Clara bit back a laugh. "And the people who want to buy them?"

At this he blinked so much in such a quick fashion that Clara wasn't sure she wasn't the one blinking. "Some of them are fine. You haven't said your name."

She tilted her head, boxed up the ray of sunshine, and replaced it with a warmth to match what she thought might be his own, guarded though it was. Holding out her hand, she said, "Clara."

"Clara." Curls and flows and skims on a two-syllable word; he took her hand in his, tilted his head to match hers, and said, "It's nice to meet you."

*

One upon a time in Cardiff, there was a very tiny shop-front, and one day the Doctor found himself there. It was fine that it was small on the outside, because it opened up to a much larger space inside complete with a greenhouse in the back, large enough for all of his plants and all of the beauty they brought. And if people walked by and didn't come in, or did come in only to scuttle off in fear later, that was fine too.

Because the Doctor knew he couldn't sell to just anybody, nor did he want to. There were those who didn't care enough, regardless of skill; it was better, though only marginally so, to send a plant off with someone who'd kill it in a day but who'd love it the whole time, than with someone who knew how to prolong its life yet would never appreciate its beauty. Better still, he thought, for flower and vine to remain cloistered away with him, where he could protect them from either the loveless or the careless. If they thought him cruel, that was acceptable—it was only for everyone's best interest that he acted that way.

So it was with that in mind that he'd gone to meet a customer a week after his not-so-grand opening. The walls had gone up, and he had prepared himself to send her running, except.

Except she had said hello. And that had been all she'd wanted to say, so much so that she'd said it three times before he'd thought to say it once. After he'd finally responded in kind, she hadn't been cross, hadn't laughed (or at least hadn't done so mockingly), had been perfectly willing to carry on a conversation. It was a strange thing; he'd long ago discovered that people didn't have patience if things that were easy for them didn't come easily to him, and as such, he'd long ago decided to stop bothering with those things. Why, he wondered, should he attempt to be congenial when all he'd get in return were whispers behind his back, false pleasantries to his face—it was more satisfying to be unpleasant and save everyone the trouble. 

But Clara had shown a sort of patience that seemed casual and unintentional. A sort that wasn't prideful, that didn't scream, “look at me, humoring this inept fool, aren't I a good person.” It took two days for his curiosity to win out over his calculated detachment (and it was only curiosity, he told himself). It took two days for him to walk over to her shop an hour after he'd closed his for the evening, to open her door with the greatest amount of caution, and to frown up at the bell above him that announced his presence. 

And when he finally looked inside, she was nowhere to be found.

Instead, there was a young, polite looking man behind a counter. Dressed in plaid, with swirls of brilliant shading and sharp lines ascending up his neck like wisteria from under his shirt collar, he smiled and asked, "Can I help you?"

"Hello," the Doctor said, thinking to smile at the last moment. "Is Clara here?"

"She's just with a customer," said the young man. "Finishing up a sleeve, might be a while."

A sleeve. It was then that the Doctor began to look around; art on the walls, things that looked like very official certificates concerning health and safety, a book concerning the history of Doc Martens on the coffee table in the waiting area. He turned back to the young man and, with his hands clasped behind his back, said, "Would you please let her know I've stopped by?"

With a slightly confused shrug, the young man said, "Sure. You know, she's booked pretty solid, but there might be a spot on the schedule day after tomorrow if you'd like to come back."

That, he thought, would do quite nicely.

*

If there was one thing Clara had not expected to see, it was the Doctor's name in her calendar. It wasn't that he hadn't seemed the type for tattoos; rather, he hadn't seemed the type for human interaction beyond what was absolutely necessary. Still, if Terrance had scheduled him for a consultation, then Clara was more than happy to oblige. 

Cleaned up from her last job, cheerful, and curious what the Doctor might have in mind, she walked out with a spring in her step and shook his hand as he stood to meet her. "Good to see you again," she said. "How've you been?"

"Well," he said. "I stopped by the other day. I think you were busy."

"Better busy than not," she said brightly. 

He frowned. "I disagree."

The smile on her face froze and her eyebrows twitched, wanting a frown. "Oh. 'Kay. What can I do for you?"

"Do for me?"

Her eyebrows got what they wanted. She frowned slightly. "You scheduled a consultation, right?"

Those big eyes of his began blinking again, just as rapidly as she'd recalled them doing before. At first, she thought it might be a good time to panic--had she misread him? Had she wrongly assumed that this was purely business when he'd simply wanted to stop by? 

But then he said, "Do you know foxglove?" and she smiled up at him and nodded.

*

It was a straightforward but elegant request. His left forearm, pale and smooth, held the sharp blue of the petals vividly; the green of the stem was equally brilliant, so much so that Clara thought it almost a shame that he mostly wore long sleeves and a coat on top of that. But she knew the pleasure of secrecy, of knowing your own lines and shapes in ways that strangers would never be privy, and somehow, though she'd only known him for a short while, she knew that the Doctor would enjoy keeping this secret from those around him as well. 

He seemed, after all, to enjoy hiding away other things. His name (a name she now knew, and now understood why he went simply by a title instead), his thoughts, his warmth. And he was warm, once she got to talking, full of empathy when she mentioned how many people disliked watching the tattoo process or found it painful. Whenever she spared a glance up to his face, she could see him staring up at the ceiling or distractedly watching the nature documentary she'd pulled up on her laptop before they'd started. Swallowing nervously, eyes wide and mouth slack, wanting to get it over with and saying no to any breaks as a result--but his thoughts and words were only on others. There was no trace of the callous and cold man the other shopkeepers kept talking about. 

After, with his shirtsleeve rolled up and his eyes on her work, he asked, "Do you know why they do it? The ones who don't like the process, I mean."

She shrugged. "Lots of reasons, I guess."

"I think," he said, "it's because they know how pretty it will be." He looked up at her, eyes holding such intensity that she found herself startled. "It's very pretty."

Most of the time, Clara was perfectly capable of taking the compliment and responding appropriately. But she found herself curiously breathless at his statement, simple though it was, as she sensed he wasn't the kind to dole out compliments regularly or easily. With a flustered smile, she murmured some kind of thanks, and quickly moved on to the easier territory of explaining what to do once he got home. 

*

In a quiet moment in his own shop, the Doctor rolled up his shirtsleeve and peered down at his new tattoo. His first tattoo, really. He hadn't planned it, not until he'd been right in front of her and she'd asked him a question, and then a few days later he had gotten this permanent swirl of green and blue drawn on his arm. 

Some part of him chided himself for not clearing things up at the start, but a much larger part of him whispered, it's sweet and delicate and so lonely and needs another. The bit of pain he'd felt, the fear of permanence, the discomfort and everything else that went along with it—it had all been worth it, like the prick of a thorn from a rose. It was something beautiful, a truth that would stay with him for as long as he lived. No matter how deliberately cruel he felt he had to be to rebuff casual cruelness from the world around him, he could look at this and still see kindness.

A customer came in; he helped them as much as anybody could, which wasn't very much as they were particularly hopeless and so left with a cactus. As soon as they were gone, he pulled his sleeve back again, and began to think about arrangements. 

*

"Peonies," he said. "And delphiniums. French meadow-rue."

Clara had no idea what he was talking about--well, peonies yes, the other things no--but he had such a grin on his face, such a terrifyingly bright expression, that with a smile of her own she said, "Might have to stop in and look at them in person first."

"That's fine, I have all of them in the shop," he said quickly.

"So you want to add all of these to the forearm piece?"

"Yes. Maybe some others as well."

So it went, with her warning him that it would take some time, that she had other clients scheduled and she'd want to work on a few different designs for him anyway, and with him nodding along, trying not to seem too eager, asking if she wanted a desk in his shop or if just a chair will do. Over the next few weeks, she popped in and out, asking questions when it wasn't so busy, sketching out ideas and snapping photos. She was never there for longer than half an hour, but she was there almost every other day. And in that time, she could see only how warm he truly was; it was there in the questions he asked about her and her life, and it was there whenever she asked him about whatever flower had caught her eye that day. Handsome in his concentration when she spoke to him, beautiful in the care he took to open up when he spoke to her—little by little, she found herself slowly being charmed, and what once had been a collection of parts and movements had at some point turned into a man who was sweet and thoughtful in ways that made him her secret alone. 

But near the end of it, as she sat and drew, out of the way and out of sight, she finally saw him with a customer. And finally she saw what she'd been warned of, the thing that had been gossiped about in that first week before she'd met him. Wary to start with, growing colder and more arch until he'd had enough of this poor man who'd come in for--something she hadn't caught, exactly. It was a complete turnaround to how she'd seen him, simultaneously commanding and distant, nearly shoving the would-be customer out the door empty-handed. 

Wide-eyed, she stared and asked, "Why did you do it?"

With a long blink, his stony face morphed into something far softer and more familiar to her. "Do what?"

"Throw that man out like that," she said. 

With a confused frown and a shrug, he said, "He wasn't a good fit."

"A good...fit, for a plant?"

The wall behind his eyes shifted back into place and he replied, "Would you take every single person who comes to you wanting a tattoo?"

"No," she said. "But that's different."

"How?"

"Because it's about not doing something awful. I won't do offensive or rude work," she said.

"And I won't sell to offensive or rude people," he said. "My plants deserve better. They require care and love to grow. They require patience. They're special."

Clara found herself dumbfounded for a moment. Then: "They were right, you treat your plants better than you treat people."

It took him a very long time to respond, and in that time the silence felt heavy inside the shop; while the rest of him stayed still, and his eyes remained locked on hers, his fingers curled against the glass counter top upon which they rested, only to uncurl and flatten out moments later before repeating the process once more. "I suppose I do," he finally said, his voice barely louder than the quiet that had preceded it. "And my plants, in turn, treat me better as well."

The quietness of his response chastened her more than any kind of yelling could have. The ice in him was as much security as it was a reaction, and she found herself unable to meet his gaze. Still, she didn't hesitate to say, "Have you thought that if you're nicer to others first, they might be nice back?"

He smiled a sad little smile, one that didn't reach his eyes and asked, "Have you thought that perhaps I've already tried that? Heartlessness is a learned response. I might not be a good man, but I have good reasons for it."

It was fair enough, and though she wasn't sure she agreed about his goodness, she couldn't think of any response worth saying. But a question burned in her mind, so she asked, "Why've you been so nice to me?"

It seemed to catch him off guard, but he shrugged and shook his head. "I had thought you didn't act like others did.” He frowned, biting his finger and glancing away nervously before glancing back at her. “But you said they were right. Meaning, really, you've acted just like them, you were just better at hiding. So I suppose I might have been wrong.”

Clara felt smaller than she'd felt in a long time. “Are you cross with me?”

The Doctor's hand dropped back to his side. “No.”

“I think you should be,” she said. 

He frowned again, thought about it for a moment, then motioned to her sketchpad. “Did you finish?”

Startled, she glanced down at it and said, “Yes. I think so.”

“When can we do it?”

*

Clara poured an apology into her work. Of course she had always been professional and wanted to do things properly, but it had never been quite so important to get things right. This time it would take a little longer, and this time the nature documentary, instead of providing a pleasant enough background hum to the proceedings, seemed more like an awkward filler to the silence between them. She had murmured, “Tell me if you need a break,” after she'd prepped the area, and had begun when it became clear he'd say nothing in response. 

The care she took building around the existing tattoo, the patience in drawing new lines around the curve of his forearm—she barely had time to spare a look at his face, but when she did, she found it very different from the last time. Instead of the fear that had been evident previously, instead of the averted gaze and the clear need for it to be over as quickly as possible, now he was looking down at her. His lips were parted and his eyebrows furrowed in a slight frown, but his eyes were glazed and calm. “You all right?” she asked.

“Fine,” he said roughly. “Good.”

She leaned back and looked over her work. “Wonderful. We're finished for now. Coloring in a few weeks, like we talked about.” 

“Do you think-” He was still looking down at her line work with those strangely calm eyes, his other hand running through his curls, mussing them even more than they normally were. “Do you think we can keep adding to it?”

Clara smiled in spite of herself. “You're getting a little addicted, aren't you?”

“It's just, they'll stay forever.” He bit his lip and finally looked her in the eyes. “We can, can't we? Keep going up?”

“Yes,” she said, her smile fading into something softer as she cleaned up. “We can. I'll have to come by the shop some more, see what else you'd like to work in.”

With a sparkle in his eyes, the Doctor said, “I'm sure that would be acceptable.”

“So listen.” She stripped off her gloves and leaned back in her chair. “I need to say I'm sorry. Should never have listened to any of those stories about you.”

“I don't mind. Is it easier?” When she looked at him in confusion, he added, “To think someone is awful instead of finding out for yourself. Well I suppose it must be, that's what I do.”

Clara stared at him incredulously. “You? Follow the rumor mill?”

“No, I just assume people will be terrible. I'm almost never wrong.”

“It may be easy, but it's not right,” she said. She motioned to him with a pout. “I mean you're perfectly sweet, aren't you?”

“I'm not,” he said. “But you might be.”

“Now that's the endorphins talking.” Standing, she helped him out of the chair and made sure he was steady on his feet before saying, “I'm sending you home. Are you fine to get there?”

“I only live above my shop,” he said.

She blinked. She blinked again, a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. “I live above mine. Hang on, have we been neighbors this whole time?”

“Seems we have been.” He frowned and regarded her warily. “You haven't heard anything suspect, have you?”

Her eyes went wide. “No. Has there been anything suspect to hear?”

“Not if you haven't heard anything.”

It took her a moment to realize he was joking, and even then she was only half sure. “Right. Go home. I'll see you later.”

He was halfway to the door when he turned back to face her. “Good night, Clara.”

She smiled softly at him and said, “Good night, Doctor.”

*

As time went by, Clara found herself in his shop more and more, during whatever spare moment she had between clients and working on other designs. Color blossomed like spring around his forearm, and this time she was there to see him peek at it whenever his own shop was quiet. The rest of the sleeve would take work to put together; she would ask his advice, and he would describe an arrangement that could work, only to hem and haw when she drew it for him. But it didn't seem to bother her much, and to some degree she found she enjoyed it. Knowing how his face would light up when they finally stumbled upon the perfect design was reward enough, as it was a knowledge of him she was sure was not shared with too many other people.

Once, one afternoon, before her shop opened for the evening she asked him, “Do you usually have plans after work?”

He blinked at her and said, “I like to read. Or I'll plan a walk for the weekend.”

“Would you like to get dinner one night?”

He blinked even more rapidly, his arms going stiff by his sides. “I don't. Eat.”

“Sorry,” she said with a frown. “You don't eat?”

The Doctor licked his lips, frowning as he rewound what he'd just said. “I do. I think.”

Clara grinned at him. “Right, if you think you eat, then let's get something tomorrow. I've got a night off, doesn't have to be formal, we could just order takeaway.”

He thought for a moment, looked at her hopefully, and asked, “Could I show you the greenhouse? I know you've been in there, but you haven't been on a proper tour of it, have you?”

“Yes. I'd love that.”

*

The Doctor did, in fact, eat. He didn't eat too much that night, but he'd thought to lay out a blanket in the shop, surrounding them with as many potted flowers and plants as he could to make it look a little nicer, and Clara had been so taken by the sight that she didn't even seem to notice that he'd barely picked at his own food. 

She'd noticed everything he'd said, though, and he'd been held in rapt attention by everything she'd said. Every word from her mouth about her process, about how it all worked, about her best days and worst—and she had listened to everything he'd had to say about the plants around them. When he took her into the greenhouse, warm and humid enough that he'd had to leave his coat in the shop, that he'd had to roll his sleeves up and show off her handiwork colored in below his elbow and healing wonderfully, she followed everything. No detail was missed and it struck him that though she worked in permanence, though her art would live on for as long as the owner wanted it to, she was keenly in awe of his own impermanent world. 

He wondered, that night as he leaned against the headboard of his bed, if she could be interested in more than just what he had to tell her. It had been sweet and strange to share his world with her in such an encompassing way that night, after having shared it in fits and starts for so long previously; she had at some point placed something warm and beating alive in the space where he'd long ago buried his heart, and he wondered, his eyes drifting away from the book in his hands and drifting towards the bright colors on his arm, if there could be something more.

Unbeknown to the Doctor, in bed on the other side of the wall sat Clara Oswald, wondering a very similar thing, her head turned as though to feel his presence through the brick and plaster. 

*

The rest of the intricate design would creep like vines up his skin. The outline went in during their appointment, her last of the night, and when she was finished, he found himself exhausted and a little anxious. She'd asked if he'd like to relax there for a while before heading home; he had nodded, content to rest in the waiting area with a cup of too-sweet tea and a chocolate bar, dozing as he watched her finish up some paperwork.

“Sure you're all right?” she asked. Her staff had gone home, the Open sign was turned off, and they were the only two left. 

The Doctor was still stripped down to his undershirt from earlier, the new lines bold and dark against his skin. “I think so. Clara?”

“Yes?”

He motioned for her to sit next to him, on the side of his unmarked right arm. “You always wear long sleeves. Do you ever let people see your tattoos?”

She suppressed a grin at the question; he didn't seem quite as tired anymore, but his voice still sounded almost dreamy, words drifting out in a haze as he looked at her from hooded eyes. She answered him by saying, “Of course. Would you like to see them?” He nodded, and she undid the top button of her blouse. 

She missed how his breath caught, but didn't miss the way his eyes darkened at the sight of ink on the skin just below her collar bones. When she rolled up her left sleeve, she didn't miss the way his fingers almost instinctively went to trace the work there, curving against color and pressing so lightly against shading. “Do you regret any of it?”

“One or two are a bit iffy, but not really,” she said with a shrug. She didn't think he could miss the way she couldn't keep a certain tension from her voice. “No. No, I don't think I really do.”

His hand wrapped around her slim wrist, his thumb stroking absently against the pulse point, he said, “I don't think I regret anything of mine, either.”

She swore she could feel the blood in her wrist under his touch, and up her neck and to her face under his gaze. Swallowing, she asked, “Should we look at scheduling your next sessions, Doctor?”

“That would be fine,” he said. “Another few chances to see you.”

“Were these all just chances to see me?” she asked playfully.

“The first one was. But I don't regret it.”

Her smile disappeared as her eyes widened. “What do you mean the first one was?”

“I mean,” he said, and then he stopped. His thumb stilled on her wrist, his brow twitched into a frown, and the words died in his throat. “I mean I'd just wanted to talk. But then it seemed like a grand idea and it was. It is.”

“You let me do all that,” she said, nodding at his arm, “because you'd just wanted a chat?”

“I let you do all this because they'll never go,” he said. “The petals will never fall. They'll never go brown and wilt. Nothing can take them from me.”

For a long moment, she was silent. When she finally spoke, she said, “You're a little bit weird about flowers but I think that's probably fine.”

“You don't mind it?” he asked.

She nodded and smiled as reassuringly as she could. “Yeah. Better weird about flowers than secretly into ax murder or something. But Doctor, listen—if you ever just want to talk, about anything, if you ever want to ask something, just do it.”

“May I ask you something now?”

Her smile faded slightly, her eyes dropped down to where he was biting his lip, and she said, “Of course.”

“May I kiss you?” He hesitated. “If you say no, that's fine. I know I'm not a terribly good catch, I just thought, since you said I should ask-”

Her hand whipping up to hush him, she said, “I honestly really think you should kiss me.”

The Doctor stared at her wide-eyed. “Yes?”

“Yes.”

It seemed to her that he hadn't quite thought it through. But she stayed still, biting her lip to prevent letting even the smallest laugh out, as he turned away, frowned, blinked a few times, and then turned back to her. “Yes,” he said again; he cupped her face with his free hand, leaned in, and kissed her.

*

Once upon a time, among misty green hill and shaded vale, walked the two. Pointing out wildflowers, sketching leaves and branches as they stopped along the way, eventually turning back to their little cabin as the sun dropped low and the air went cool. There was a promise of hot food and a warm bed, and a roaring fire if they felt the need (which they would). 

Later, she would lay against his bare skin, and he would glide his fingers against every bit of ink on her body. And she would do the same to him, tracing up and up the flowers on his arms, across the roses on his chest, until her hands and then her lips found the two bold, bright hearts she'd laid within him. One to remind him of his own on days when he felt like forgetting it, and the other to remind him that, if he so needed it, he had hers as well. 

And they lived happily ever after.


End file.
